Duyên || Clint Barton

022 || mercy

•••

Four months.
It had been four months since the snap. Four months since I had felt complete.
It felt longer. Looking back, I couldn't believe that just four months ago I was making hotdogs for my family of 5. It seemed like a fever dream, the domestic scene massively contrasting with the pile of bodies and rivers of blood that lay in front of me every few days. I couldn't recognise myself.
The familiar self hatred up on me as I thought about what I had become.

We had made our way through a quarter of the gangs in Mexico already, working with the same vigour we had been since the beginning, though something felt different. It wasn't as easy for me to handle anymore, my guilty conscience seemingly crawling it's way through the dark cloud of mourning that had kept it at bay before.
Today's mission seemed to be a breaking point.

It was just like all the others. Get in, kill everyone, get out.
Only this gang had children.
Once we had dealt with the adults, some of the older teenagers started attacking us. I froze. Using defensive moves only, I was backed into a corner. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill them.
That was when I saw him. Roughly 14, approaching me with a crowbar he had picked up from the side, a mirror image of Cooper.
It was too much, my mind shutting off, body moving in autopilot. I only regained awareness as Clint shook my shoulders, my eyes straying to the floor. A sob escaped my lips as I saw the Cooper-lookalike lying dead on the floor, the rest of the armed teenagers bodies scattered amongst the corpses of their superiors.

I stared blankly at my hands, urging myself to feel something. Anything. I half-acknowledged the sound of Clint entering the bedroom, towel placed low against his hips.

•••

It was wrong. He knew that. She was broken. He also knew that. It was his fault. He knew that as well.
He should've forced her to go to the compound, he should've stuck to his plan. He had broken her. His wife, love of his life, mother of his - no. He wasn't going to think of them. Not now.

Clint looked at the bottle in his hands, glaring at the contents with a torn conscience.
He felt his resolve slipping as he caught sight of Grace, her hair hanging limply around her face which was void of any emotion.
Clint was going to have to put his selfishness to the side. He only hoped she would forgive him.

•••

I felt Clint's hand grip my shoulder gently, my gaze moving to rest on his face.
"You okay?" He spoke, his voice gravelly.
I nodded slightly, leaning into his body as he sat down on the floor next to me.
"Drink?"
I took the cup he offered me with a smile, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before downing the contents.
A flash of sadness crossed through Clint's eyes. I cupped his cheek with my hand.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm sorry Grace" he said, sounding slightly strangled as tears sprang to his eyes, "I love you so much. I'm sorry I've done this to you"
"What-?"

A wave of dizziness hit me, my eyesight going blurry.
"Clint?"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you so much" he whispered hoarsely, cradling me in his arms as I felt myself losing consciousness.
"What did you -"

Clint allowed the tears to fall as Grace collapsed, holding her for just a few more minutes.
He had granted her mercy. An escape.
Forcing himself to walk away from her resting figure, he took out his burner phone, inputting coordinates and the room number before sending the text off. Hesitating, he sent a follow up text before placing the phone next to Grace's body.

'Tell her I'm sorry'